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by oswiin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark is Lady of Winterfell, Bit of politics but not much, Bran and Rickon haven't returned yet, Cute, F/M, Fighting against Cersei, Fluff, Jon Snow is King in the North, Sansa's mad, Sharing a Bed, Touching, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswiin/pseuds/oswiin
Summary: Jonrya Week Day 3 - TouchArya arrives home and is named Lady of Winterfell. Jon arrives with Daenerys and her army to fight Cersei, but is still King. They are inseparable, just like they used to be.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 134
Collections: Jonrya Week, Jonrya Week: January 2020





	Home

When snow fell in King’s Landing, they knew that winter had arrived. A long, hard winter, the likes of which had not been seen by the living. The dead, however, were well used to the darkness.

For the Northerners, with snows falling even in summer, they knew the long winter was near when the Wintertown was full, sprawling with bannermen, smallfolk and animals alike. It was among these crowds that Arya Stark watched and waited for the King in the North, and the Dragon Queen, to return home.

Since Arya had returned, she had been an unconventional lady to be sure, but there was no doubt her people loved her. Upon her arrival, the guards thought her a beggar, or a con artist, seeking gold or a warm bed they could not spare. They turned for a moment, and, like a shadow in the darkness, she was gone. Ser Davos Seaworth was told, and he reported to her sister, Sansa. The redhead found her in the crypts, staring into their father's eyes. In the great hall, where she had once sat at Ned Stark’s table and listened to his bannermen as Arya Underfoot, all those proud lords bowed before her. 

Umber, Manderly, Glover, Reed, Mormont… Not a single man had wavered or hesitated, and Arya felt the loyalty of the North for the first time in years. With the Boltons in charge, she assumed many had turned; it would be only natural. But Jon removed the traitorous Karstarks, the only turncloaks she knew of and, as they recounted Jeyne Poole's forced imitation of the girl she once teased, she also learned that every sword was put to use to take back their home. Even those under Bolton command turned at the first opportunity. 

From the look on her sister's face, they had not bent for her. A small part of Arya, one long buried, felt small pride in that. 

Ser Davos was a nice man, good-hearted but practical, with the feeling of familiarity that rarely accompanies strangers. Arya felt she could trust him. When he rose to speak of naming a Lady of Winterfell, she noticed each man and woman give a look that said they had discussed it at length already. 

At the mention of a Lady of Winterfell, Sansa puffed up her chest and stood, smiling. _Like a Tully_ , the younger thought. “My Lords, we all know this position is of little importance, given we now have a King in the North.” Sansa was even taller than Arya remembered, her hair redder and shinier than ever. She stuck out on this room full of gruff, brow-beaten Northmen, with their worries and cares and unkempt hair. Lord Eddard had never much cared how a good man looked, so long as he stayed good. Even little Lyanna Mormont looked more Stark than her sister. 

“Still,” Sansa continued, “with His Grace in the South, it might be prudent to have a Northerner in command of their own people.” She looked to Davos apologetically, but his face showed that he took no offence. Arya watched her sister’s mind work and was amazed. She had been schooled in Southron politics, the kind that got Eddard Stark’s head removed, and she was good at it. But Arya was observant, and she guessed these old Northerners would not take kindly to it.

Greatjon Umber was the first to rise. Nearly seven feet tall, he towered over all and commanded attention with his impressively loud voice. “These past moons, I have been held captive by the Freys. My son died defending Robb Stark at the Red Wedding, and the North Remembers. Let there always be a Stark in Winterfell.” A murmur of assent rippled throughout the room, and Arya was familiar with the look of smug victory her sister wore.

As Robett Glover stood to speak, she found herself wishing Jon was there, to muss her hair and call her little sister and make her feel safe. These lords loved her, and she loved them for it, but she did not know them. She had not known them for years. It was proud Northmen like these that had stood by as Mycah was slain, and she did not know if these men were of the same kind. She yearned for her brother’s callused hands to stroke her cheek, and to hear his soft voice tell her _You are a wolf and cannot be afraid_. She needed him to make her feel brave.

“I say the one we fought for to take the North, should be the one we fight for to keep it!” Robett Glover’s booming voice cut through her thoughts, though it may also have been her sister’s burning stare. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Before she knew it, Glover had unsheathed his sword and was kneeling before her in reverence.

Sansa was glaring at her, but Arya ignored her as best she could. Her sister turned to the lords, reminding them, “I am also a Stark, my lords. And I am the elder here.” Robett Glover raised nothing but his eyes to glare at Sansa. Sansa Lannister, as he called her. And the North did not bow to Lannisters. Sansa’s unladylike outburst went largely ignored.

Arya’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates but she remembered her courtesies and stood before Lord Glover. Davos spoke up from behind her, “A fine choice. His Grace would approve.” Wyman Manderly and Greatjon Umber rose at once, unsheathed their greatswords, and did the same. 

Lyanna Mormont lead the rest and all at once, the entire room were on their knees, swords glinting against the flickering torchlight. The Lady of Bear Island lifted her head and looked Arya dead in the eye, brown meeting grey. “I pledge myself to Arya Stark, sister to the Kings in the North, and Lady of Winterfell, from this day until my last day.” Arya just stood there, stunned; she was a Stark to be sure, but still just a girl of fifteen.

But these were good men, loyal men, and they were her men. Like her father and brother before her. Still, she couldn’t help but wish that Jon was at her side.

The sound of horns, announcing the arrival of a large host, broke her out of the memory. She strained to see over the heads of the smallfolk and couldn’t fight the smile. He’ll be here soon, she thought. He’ll be home. 

* * *

Jon entered Winterfell’s courtyard, Daenerys and her entourage trailing behind. His eyes landed on Sansa, furs wrapped around her shoulders, a strained smile on her face. The Greatjon, Lyanna Mormont, Yohn Royce, and all the other bannerman were there to greet them, but Arya was nowhere to be found.

He scanned the battlements and towers but tried not to look too frantic as he faced his half-sister. Their embrace was rather stiff, and he knew they would be speaking well into the night about her grievances. He introduced one lady to the other, but Sansa did not bow. She gave Daenerys a once-over and a frown, and Dany pretended not to notice.

Daenerys beamed at her. “It is an honour to meet the Lady of Winterfell,” she began, and didn’t notice Sansa hold back her glare. The lords around them followed Sansa’s example, regarding Dany with cool suspicion. “Your brother had spoken of little else. You are even more beautiful than he described.”

Sansa had never been a very good liar, and her contempt for Daenerys was quite obvious as she spoke. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I am not the Lady of Winterfell.” Jon could hear how much it galled her to say the words out loud. “That honour belongs to my sister, who I’m sure is lurking somewhere.” 

Dany tried to hide her confusion, but she couldn’t help but wonder: if this is what the other sister looked like, how beautiful must his favourite be?

As soon as Sansa spoke, Arya came sprinting towards them from the shadows of the castle. The lords and ladies parted to let her through, and she did her best to smooth down her clothes and catch her breath, before flashing Daenerys a soft smile.

“Your Grace,” she breathed, still trying to recover from her run, and appear as the respectable lady. She chanced a brief look at Jon, and felt her heart swell, but she knew now was not the time, and turned back to the dragon queen. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

Jon watched Arya converse easily with Daenerys as they trudged through the snow to the Great Hall, speaking of dragons, Braavos and all manner of things. Jon heard none of it. Instead, he studied her. 

He admired the great fur cloak hanging from her shoulders, and the black wool dress she wore, with leather armour that made her look like the warrior queens of old. Her brown hair hung loose about her waist, but it was still as tangled as ever. He longed to run his hands through it, to muss it up like he used to.

She turned her head and caught his eye. A grin alit her face, and she turned away again. Jon knew it would be a long day if he could not hold her, or just touch her hand. He would give anything to muss up her hair once more and watch her make a face, to hear her finish a sentence with him.

* * *

Jon looked into the carved, gaping eyes of the weirwood tree, stared at the dried sap that made the eyes bleed as they did. He barely heard her footsteps, but not even Arya Stark could be silent in the snow.

He turned, and there she was. She couldn’t fight the smile, and neither could he. Before he knew it, Arya Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, was on top of him with a tight embrace that almost knocked him to the ground. He grasped her tightly, feeling and breathing in every part of her, committing everything about her to memory. 

His callused hands ran through her dark hair, Stark hair, _his_ hair. It was glossy and fine, and less like a bird’s nest than he remembered. Since they last saw each other, she had woven it into proper Northern braids, expertly so. It made him sad that he wouldn’t be able to muss up her hair.

They parted, but only so he could look at her face, see those wide, grey eyes he had missed so much. He remembered the last time they had hugged like that, the day he left for the Wall. _Stick them with the pointy end_ , he’d told her. She had shot back, _I know which end to use,_ which made him laugh. She could always do that.

“I’ve missed you, little sister.” Arya’s eyes were glassy with tears. Jon removed his gloves to wipe them away, and she shivered at the touch. She reached up to stroke his cheek, and the scar above his eyebrow.

“And I’ve missed you… brother.” They fell silent for a moment, taking each other in; their breath was visible in the freezing air, so Arya moved around to fight the chill. Her fingers brushed the white wood of the heart tree, tracing the grooves in the bark. “I heard you died.”

She turned to him, and saw the light fade from his eyes, but only for a moment. “I did,” he answered simply. Arya could tell he didn’t wish to speak further, so she did not press the subject. The silence between them grew awkward; so many years apart, perhaps they were just too different now. “Do you still have your needle?”

Arya beamed and rushed to unsheathe the thin blade and show him, stumbling with it as she did. Jon couldn’t believe she had held on to it. He grasped the hilt, bearing Mikken’s mark; joyful, dead Mikken. It still had good balance, a fine blade, with a perfect name.

“How’s your needlework?” he asked playfully.

“Good,” she grinned, “I might even be better than Sansa.” That made them both giggle. He stared at the shining metal, and thought of the rippling Valyrian steel sword his father wielded. _Ice_ it was called. Arya was taller now, and he guessed less skinny beneath those furs. _Perhaps she could learn to use a longsword_ , he wondered. Needle had served her well, but a stronger weapon would serve too. And, without a master-at-arms, he could be the one to teach her.

Jon raised his eyes back to Arya, and felt an overwhelming urge to have her in his arms again. He went to hug her again, and this time it was Arya who warned him, “Put down the sword first,” yet she was laughing as she said it. He laid it carefully in the snow and in an instant she was in his arms again, showering him with kisses.

* * *

War councils were serious business, but Jon Snow and Arya Stark were proving to be quite distracting. Davos first noticed how close they were standing, yet he attributed it to years of separation, and the desire to keep their family close. Daenerys Targaryen, no stranger to love between siblings that was more than familial, was more suspicious.

Since his return, Arya and Jon had been inseparable. They walked together, ate together, even slept together. More than once the servants, the maester, Ser Davos, Missandei, or Sansa had walked into Jon’s room to summon him to a war council or some other matter, and found Jon and Arya sleeping soundly beneath the covers, their limbs entangled and their faces inches from each other. They did no more than sleep, but it was passing queer to the newcomers in Winterfell. Even Sansa was suspicious. 

They even fought each other. Jon was teaching Arya how to become proficient with a longsword. Needle would not do in a real battle against Westerosi armour, and she knew she would need to learn. Jon shared Longclaw with her; the Valyrian steel was lighter than regular swords, and it was a hand-and-a-half sword, which would prepare her well for a battle against men as strong as the Mountain That Rides. She was improving everyday, and soon the blacksmith would finish the work on her own longsword. Jon wondered what she would call it this time.

Aside from her duties as Lady of Winterfell, Arya was expected at every war council, preparing for their fight against the Iron Throne. Their target was King’s Landing, and Cersei most of all, with as few civilian casualties as possible. Her son, Tommen, still sat the throne, but she was the true power without her father. But as each man and woman present put forth possible battle plans, Jon clasped Arya’s small hand tightly behind their backs, and stroked the back of her thumb with his. She was grinning like an idiot; when it came to Jon, she was no longer an expert liar, her emotions plain on her face. She giggled a little when his touch began to tickle, and the whole room fell silent.

“Pardon, my lords,” she said demurely, doing her best not to buckle beneath Sansa’s probing stare, “please continue.” Ser Davos resumed his explanation of the defenses of King’s Landing, as Arya shot Jon a playful glare which only served to make him giggle. When Daenerys Targaryen began speaking, however, Arya listened. She admired the dragon queen, and dearly longed to meet her children.

“We have the Iron Fleet,” Daenerys said, nodding to Theon, standing as proxy for his sister, Asha Greyjoy, “but with the Maergery Tyrell married to Tommen, Cersei still outnumbers us enormously.” Daenerys shifted the pieces along the map table. “The Martells are remaining neutral, for now. We need another ally.” Tyrion Lannister, with the chain of golden hands draped proudly over his shoulders, stepped forward.

“The best way to facilitate an alliance,” he began, his eyes darting to meet Jon’s, “is through marriage.” Arya didn’t like the sound of that, no more than Jon, but Sansa wore a sly grin. That made Arya’s nerves even less settled, and when she saw the eyes of everyone in that room were settled on her, she shook her head profusely.

“No,” she stated, backing away from the table, removing her hand from Jon’s grasp. She could see his concerned expression, but that didn’t matter. She had to get out of there. “I won’t do it. None of you can make me!” No-one had a chance to speak up before she fled from the room, slamming the great oaken door behind her. She was Arya Stark, Lady of Winterfell, she had the wolf blood and promised she would be brave. But now, she felt like a little girl again, railing against her mother and her rules, running to the Godswood so she could cry without being seen.

She didn’t make for the Godswood this time, though. As she crossed the yard, Nymeria came padding towards her and Arya found some comfort in running her fingers through the soft, grey fur. When she saw Ghost waiting patiently for Jon beneath the covered bridge, she wondered if he had any part in that scheme. _He couldn’t have_ , she reasoned, _he would never._ Still, doubt clouded her mind, and she retreated within the keep for comfort.

She pushed open the door to the lord’s chamber, her father’s chamber, now Jon’s. He had offered it to her, but Arya had dwelt too long with ghosts, she didn’t need to sleep with them too. Still, beneath the covers it was warm, and they smelled of Jon. In an instant, her eyes fluttered closed, and she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Arya stirred to feel a presence at the end of her bed. Jon was sitting by her feet, absentmindedly tracing patterns over the soft fur covers, but he smiled when he felt her move. “Morning, princess,” he whispered softly. The name made Arya giggle as she sat up against the headboard. Her tears had long since dried, but Jon brushed them away softly all the same.

She looked out the window and saw the stars shimmering against a black canvas, and scowled at her brother. She reached out her hand and intertwined their fingers. They fell silent for a moment, as Arya enjoyed running her thumb along his knuckles; his hand almost felt warmer than the furs she was snuggled under. For a moment, Arya felt content, until Jon decided to break the silence.

“I didn’t know,” he said, and Arya instantly knew what he meant. “I swear, I would never have agreed.” Arya’s mood was black, but she knew he spoke the truth. _Jon will want me, even if no one else does_. She thought of Sansa’s smug smirk, Daenerys and Tyrion’s cautious words, and Jon’s shock and surprise. “I’ll never let them marry you off to a stranger.”

“Who did they have in mind?” she asked, mildly curious about how they thought would be appropriate for the Lady of Winterfell. Despite everything, she quite liked how that sounded.

“Willas Tyrell,” he answered, and soon they were both giggling. Arya gripped Jon’s fingers and pulled him towards her. They lay there, side by side, letting the laughter peter out into contented quiet. “I hear he’s a gentle soul, kind… handsome.” Arya smiled ruefully and shifted so she was lying on her side, facing him. “Him, or Trystane Martell. Daenerys thinks Prince Doran can be persuaded to end his betrothal.” She ran her fingers through his hair without a thought, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was.

“Well, I’ve heard Princess Arianne is very beautiful, and willful like me,” she joked. “If we do become sisters, I might just prefer Sunspear to Winterfell.” She had that mischievous, crooked grin when she was playing a trick on him. Jon knew she hadn’t meant to call herself beautiful, but Jon knew she was. “I may even begin to braid my hair like a Dornishwoman.” 

Jon Snow, King in the North, pouted like a child when she said that. “You mean I wouldn’t be able to mess it up?” Arya burst out laughing and punched him playfully on the arm.

“I’m not marrying anyone,” she whispered determinedly, though in her heart she doubted. _Unless, it’s the right person_ . “I’m never leaving Winterfell again. This is my home. My family’s here, my friends, my life. You know how many times I tried to return here, and to you. I’m not marrying some prince I’ve never met, just to help a war. I’ve had enough of war, of death. _I want to live. Here._ ”

Jon Snow felt a shy grin creep across his features. He took Arya’s hand and kissed it. “Never marrying, huh?” She blushed and bit her lip, and Jon found himself staring at them for far too long. “Not a prince you’ve never met, but how about a king you have?” His voice was shaking, and it took Arya a moment to comprehend what he meant. Her dark, grey eyes widened in surprise as Jon’s scarred, handsome face edged closer and closer. She stared at his lips and tried to comprehend what was happening, and then they were kissing. Softly, sweetly. Arya decided she liked it. She liked it a lot.

She briefly wondered how Sansa would feel having to call her ‘Your Grace’ as she had once boasted, but that didn’t matter. Arya had Jon, she had her home. And she would never be alone or scared again.


End file.
